Forgotten Dream
by Senbazuru
Summary: Alanna tried to become a knight, but was caught. She tried to become a Shang, but failed at that as well. Now, at the age of seventeen, she’s being forced into a carriage bound for the City of the Gods. And there’s only one way to escape it: a faked death
1. Prologue

**Forgotten Dream**  
by Zenin

Prologue

_Have you ever heard of parallel universes? Parallel universes are made up of all the decisions we don't make. If I were to have a choice between eating a chocolate ice cream cone or a vanilla ice cream cone, I would probably eat the chocolate one. So what happens to the vanilla cone? What if I did eat it after all?_

_It isn't every day that you discover that there are different worlds. But have you ever thought of what that other world would be like? I'm sure the other world can be fun, but it has just as many errors as the world we live in now._

_My name is Alanna…Alanna of Trebond. You may know me as the first Lady Knight, as the girl who cleverly disguised herself as a boy in order to become a page. The girl who defied the regulations and standards of the land and pretty much tossed them back in the king's face. Well, that's me in my parallel universe. _

_Who am I?_

_I am Alanna of Trebond, the girl who tried to become a knight, but was discovered and sent back. The girl who tried to run away with a Shang warrior, but was caught. The girl who my father tried to send to the convent, but escaped. _

_This is my true story, the unabridged version from my very own lips. It may not be as exciting as you wish, or as monotonous as you'd expect. You may ask "Well, what can she do if she's not getting married to some decrepit gap-toothed man, associating with princes, or acting as bouncer for the Dancing Dung?" Hm? It's not called the Dancing Dung? Well, whatever you call it... _

_Ask no more, for I am about to tell you a tale that has long been shunned. A tale that has been mocked from here to the ends of the earth. _

_A forgotten dream._


	2. Chapter One

**Forgotten Dream**_  
_by Zenin

«_  
I was a young woman, full of vivacious ideas and mischief. There was nothing I wanted more than to join my brother in battle against the evil foes of my country, (thus gaining honour and glory, of course). I didn't want to go to the convent only to be given away, against my will, to some doddering old man who drooled over his morning porridge. I wanted, for once, to be treated as an equal; and not like I was a side of prime beef, only sold to the highest bidder. There were so many better things to do with life. Like, for instance, trying to escape…  
_«

Sunlight poured into the small valley in streams of molten gold, gilding the tips of the tall pines in the fiery glow of the afternoon. Craggy ridges of dilapidated mountain dipped down to smooth and form the tiny basin…the disregarded fief of Trebond. A village of minuscule proportions spread haphazardly throughout the valley; houses built wherever possible, farms produced on strips of leveled land, shops and tinkers settling themselves in on any noticeable space. The winding main road, having been built after the village, threaded its way through the village in curvaceous snake-like patterns.

Several centuries had passed and several kings had died, but in the latter days Trebond had been well known for its fine weapon designs, textiles, and other useful goods that had been sold and carted to Corus, Tortall's powerful capital. In those days, the Trebond name had been associated with courageous knights, influential lords, and haunting amethyst eyes. Yes, those eyes had been legendary.

Now, however, Trebond was more likely to be associated with…erm…nothing.

In the shadows of an overhanging oak, a slim girl stared bleakly into the depths of the forest that surrounded a small clearing. Sunlight glinted fleetingly against her red hair as she moved slightly, reaching listlessly for an arrow. Her lavender eyes closed wearily and a small sigh escaped her lips as she drew the shaft back on the string.

A twig snapped beyond the small cluster of pines. The young woman's head jerked up and the bow twanged. The arrow whistled shrilly into the bushes…soon followed by a cry of pain.

Alanna of Trebond cursed loudly and notched another arrow to the bow. Her strange eyes seemed almost to glow with frustration as she strode into the underbrush. A man lay on the ground, whimpering as he tried to keep his weight off of his backside, where an arrow was lodged. She ignored his wound and leaned forward, grabbing a fistful of the man's tunic and jerking him to his knees. He sobbed unhappily and struggled to free himself from her gloved hand. Alanna's icy glare silenced him immediately.

"What are you doing here?" she growled.

"P–please don't kill m–me!"

"Damn it all, man! D'you honestly think I'm going to kill you?" snapped Alanna. "If I was going to kill you, I wouldn't have missed!"

The peasants could be so stupid sometimes. It wasn't as if Alanna habitually shot her countrymen every day.

The man tried to wrench himself away again and this time Alanna let him go, watching as the peasant lurched to his feet and stumbled painfully away. The crashing faded into silence as Alanna stood still, fingering her bow and frowning darkly at the bruised plants that marked the peasant's exit.

That was not the first time she had found someone lurking in her private archery ground. She had claimed the small clearing as her own when she was a little girl and everyone knew better than to intrude upon her when she was practicing. _Especially_ when she was practicing. And today it was even more important that people stay away from her. Her temper had been near uncontrollable since the previous night's escapade.

"Alanna."

She spun around quickly, another arrow notched to her bow in readiness, violet eyes narrowed. The intruder lifted large hands, stepping back carefully. "Now, now, lass. What 'ave I told you 'bout pointing weapons at people? 'Don't point unless you mean to kill someone.'"

"And what if I am?"

He ignored her. "And shootin' that man was not in your best interests, if yeh want t' avoid going to the convent. Shootin' him wasn't the best idea anyway, convent or no."

"I've had enough of these trespassers, Coram." Alanna slowly lowered her bow, her eyes fixed on the sergeant-at-arms' face. "Why did you send him anyway? Half of the fief is afraid of me."

It was true. The commoners were afraid of Lord Alan's children. Thom and Alanna's red hair and purple eyes were too different from everyone else. It had been easier to deal with the twins when they were little children, wide-eyed and quiet. But when Thom had left for the palace to become a knight, Alanna had learned how to fight — and she liked fighting. Noblewomen were supposed to be quiet and demure, to like dancing, needlework, and flirtations. Alanna liked swords and archery, and her quick temper made her anything but demure. She seemed to be more demon than human. No _normal_ noblewoman would do stuff like that.

Coram shrugged. "I sent him t' keep an eye on you. And nobody is all that afraid—"

"They just make the sign against evil when they see me, that's all," said Alanna sarcastically.

"Shootin' 'em doesn't help that much."

Alanna lifted her chin defiantly at the guard. "I wasn't even aiming at him," she retorted, "seeing as I didn't even know he was there." She shifted her shoulder slightly to ease the weight of the quiver. "Was there some special reason I needed watching today?"

Coram rubbed the back of his neck tiredly. "It was t' keep yeh from doing anythin' stupid. But I see there's no way of stoppin' that." Alanna clenched her fists and opened her mouth to retort, but he interrupted her. "Besides, I didn't want yeh to try runnin' away again."

"I wasn't running away!" Alanna snapped. "I was…" Her voice trailed away as she searched for the right words.

"_Runnin__' away_," Coram said firmly. "Be reasonable, Alanna."

"Reasonable?" Alanna repeated slowly. Her eyes flashed. "Was it _reasonable_ when you had me beaten, knocked unconscious, and dragged home by ten guards? You call that _reasonable_, Coram?"

"Erm…"

A strained silence fell between the two as each thought of the previous night's incident. The night had been cool and dark, the new moon a black void in the sky. The last Shang warrior staying in Trebond had set off with his small apprentice, his course keyed for the Yamani islands. Of course, the moment a servant had found the old Shang master's apprentice bound and gagged in the stable, it was only a matter of moments before the fief discovered that the lord's daughter was missing.

Alanna had been a mile down the road before the guards caught up with them. It had taken ten guards to convince the doddering martial arts master that a) he was not being attacked by Scanrans, b) his apprentice was not who he thought it was, and c) "stop fighting, you damn fool!" In the end, Alanna and the Shang had managed to knock out six guards and the remaining four had thumped Alanna into a peacefully unconscious submission.

Needless to say, Lord Alan was _not_ happy.

Coram shrugged uncomfortably. "You fought, so they defended themselves. I told 'em to knock y'out if yeh became too hard t' manage."

"Well they did a very good job," said Alanna bitterly.

"Hostility will get you nowhere, my lady."

The two turned to see the chief healer of Trebond – also one-time nursemaid to Lord Alan's children – brushing twigs and leaves from her skirts. The woman straitened up, disapproval in every line of her face as she gazed, thin-lipped, at her charge.

"Those breeches are indecent, Alanna. The Goddess knows that you'd have a better chance at an enjoyable life if you would simply acknowledge the fact that you are, and always will be, a lady of high degree." The healer held up an arrow that looked suspiciously familiar. "At least, you _could_ be a fine lady if you'd only stop shooting your countrymen every time they try to say hello."

The sarcasm was not lost on the lord's daughter. "Might I remind you, Maude, that it is typical for most humans to greet one to their face, and not their backside?"

Coram could not stop the grin from spreading across his face. "Aye, and a fine greeting yeh gave him, lass."

Maude pocketed the arrow with a sigh. "Your father wishes to speak with you, my lady. In the library."

"Where else would he be?" muttered Alanna. She glanced around the clearing quickly. "I have to gather my arrows and oil my bowstring –"

"One of the servants will do that for you," said Maude firmly. Alanna gave her a deprecating glance and set off at a reluctant run towards the castle of Trebond. Coram watched the girl disappear around a bend in the trail and shook his head.

"I'm startin' to regret teachin' that girl archery."

"_Starting_?" Maude interrupted snappishly. "You dolt, I've been regretting it every day for the past seven years! If it hadn't been for your teaching, she might have turned out to be a normal young lady."

"A normal, _empty-headed_ young lady like the rest of 'em at that convent of yers," Coram countered.

Her expression turned slightly rueful. "There would be fewer injuries, anyway…"

"All I've done is wake up some of her skills, that's all. 'Sides, it's as the saying goes: yeh can feed a donkey cake, but it won't change the fact that the creature's a donkey."

Maude's lips twitched. "So you think she's an ass?"

"Shut yer mouth, woman."

The lord of Trebond was a slight man, with greying brown hair and serious grey eyes. His face held tinges of former good looks, looks that had pretty much worn away after the death of his beloved wife. Having always been a scholarly man, he threw himself into the working of his fief with fierce dedication. It gave him an excuse to ignore the two small children who had so frighteningly begun to resemble their mother.

Alanna especially looked like his dear wife. Her long, richly red hair and those flashing amethyst eyes… Alianne had had blue eyes, but the shape of Alanna's eyes well matched her mother's.

That was another thing. The twins had purple eyes. That colour had not sprung up in the past nine generations. Lord Terence of Trebond had them, and so had Neviah of Davan, Lord Terence's great-aunt…

Alanna was late. Lord Alan raised his eyes to glance at the door and then lowered them down to the letter before him. Punctuality was important – vital in running a fief smoothly. Hopefully one of the twins would understand this concept while he still lived.

The door opened, admitting a breathless – and muddy – Alanna. She stood before him and bowed stiffly. Lord Alan fastened his eyes on the letter on his desk and acknowledged her presence with a curt nod.

"Lady Alanna," Lord Alan murmured, his voice as dry as ever. "How kind of you to deem my presence worthy enough to arrive promptly."

She was silent. It didn't matter if she was late or not. The lecture he would give her would always remain the same.

"The reply from the temple arrived today," her father began, sliding the missive across the desk to her. "The First Daughter agreed to take you on, despite their misgivings. I have paid them a sufficient amount to keep you in the convent for one year. One year, Alanna, should be enough to fashion you into something faintly resembling a noblewoman of decent heritage. You will be able to enter court society at the normal age: eighteen."

Alanna was silent for a moment. Her father simply folded his hands and watched her, waiting for the outburst that was bound to happen. She didn't keep him waiting long.

"With all due respect, Father," Alanna began, "I'd much rather stay here, where I might be of some help to our fief."

Lord Alan was pleasantly surprised. A diplomatic answer. How nice. "You will be of greatest use in court, Lady Alanna," he replied. "Finding a husband —"

"And keeping out of your way," Alanna finished. Her eyes flashed. "There are other ways of making a living than just marriage."

"Give me an example," Lord Alan challenged. When his daughter was silent, he continued. "You want to become a knight. You've always wanted that. Well, that's impossible, for more than one reason. For one, knighthood is reserved solely for men. Women are too weak, physically and emotionally, to deal with the troubles of war." He paused to sip from his goblet of mulled wine. "Secondly, you do not display the stability that becomes knights. You lose your temper far too often, as was displayed this very afternoon."

"That was an accident!" Alanna cried.

"And do you think a knight would make such an error? A knight's very existence is made by his skill at weaponry and his chivalrous behavior. A knight would not fumble with a bow and accidentally shoot a commoner. A knight would not then blame the commoner for the incident. I understand that you did both."

Lord Alan watched his daughter struggle to control her temper. She was too much like her mother. This was one of the reasons why he wanted her out of his sight. The memories were too painful to bear, even though it had been so long since Alianne's death.

So, as he did once before – seven years ago – he coolly dismissed his daughter. "My decision is final. You will go to the City of the Gods and be placed under the care of the First Daughter for one year. I expect you to uphold the Trebond legacy and act according to your station. I will not tolerate any more of your antics. You are a young lady and shall act as such." His voice was flat as he met Alanna's fierce glare. "You are dismissed."

Alanna stood quickly, her chair almost toppling over in her haste. The look she gave her father before she whirled around and strode to the door stung him worse than any arrow. But he managed just the same to say what was needed to be said.

"Alanna."

The young woman paused in the doorway and slowly turned around. Lord Alan met his daughter's eyes and said, slowly and deliberately:

"I don't want to see you again."

Her eyes darkened. "Then you won't."

She turned abruptly and was gone.

Okay. So there you have it. The third (maybe fourth or fifth) revision of the first chapter. Now, I wasn't quite sure what Alanna's mother was called. I don't think Tamora Pierce ever mentioned her name. So, I figured that it might have been something like Alianne, since it seems to fit so well. (Alanna, in later books, names her sons after her dead father and her dead brother. Where the name _Alianne_ came from is curious…so I've made it the mother's name.)

Also, it's kind of hard to portray the exact emotions that Lord Alan is feeling. He really doesn't want to see his daughter again, and as long as she's married and living happily somewhere else, he'd be pretty happy, too. He also thinks that the whole knight thing is not only ridiculous, but unhealthy for his daughter. So really, if you look at things from his perspective, he's doing what he thinks is right by removing that influence from her life.

And boy, I was having some time of it trying to make him seem like a stern, stubborn, hard, loving, and awful father…all at once. Eee…

**Soundtrack** (songs I listened to while writing this chapter)

· In Trutina – Charlotte Church

· More to Life – Stacie Orrico

· I Dare You to Move – Switchfoot

· Tomorrow – Avril Lavigne

Zenin


	3. Chapter Two

**Forgotten Dream**_  
_by Senbazuru

_«  
So. It was decided. There was no conceivable escape. I was finally going to the convent, to be exiled to a place of giggling, gawking, gagging girls; most of whom were Gifted – something that I most definitely was not. My father was probably more fortunate than even he knew. I was finally going to be put out of his sight…perhaps forever.  
«_

"_I don__'__t want to see you again_."

The words still rang in Alanna's ears. She turned her head to gaze out of the carriage window at the thick mist that was descending on the forest pathway. Autumn always brought such mists. The Trebond peasants steadily complained about the dampness of the rolling fog – winters were mild and summers hot, but by the Goddess! Why couldn't they have a decent, refreshing rain rather than the damned fog?

No one was ever satisfied.

Alanna was, perhaps, the one who found comfort in the autumn mists. Something about the way the air curled and spread like a swirling sea of grey…it calmed her. Yet it was foolish to like the mists. Scanrans, neatly blanketed by the natural cover, could steal up right to the very edge of the fief and raid it with ease. That was why the lord of Trebond always heightened his security during the harvest months. That was also why he had only sent seven guards to accompany his daughter to the City of the Gods.

"_Then you won__'__t_."

She snorted at the memory, feeling a pair of large blue eyes stare timidly at her from the other corner of the carriage. With a sigh, Alanna turned in her seat and stared back at the small child.

Maude had found a spark of the Gift in the tiny girl, so it was determined that the child would be sent to the convent in the City of the Gods to be trained in her talents. In exchange for this honour, the girl had volunteered to act as maidservant to the daughter of Lord Alan.

The child was greatly pitied.

"Gwyneth," warned Alanna, "your eyes will pop out if you stare any harder."

The child gasped and clapped her hands to her eyes; which had, if possible, grown even larger at Alanna's words. Alanna bit her cheek to keep from grinning and resumed gazing out the window.

Quickly, her urge to smile faded, soon replaced by the morose feeling that had accompanied her ever since her departure. She leaned her forehead against the sill of the door and sighed.

"_Upset, are you?_" Maude had quipped early that morning.

"_My_," she had retorted, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "_How did you ever guess? My father tells me that he never wants to see me again and, adding insult to injury, proceeds to outfit me with an entire wardrobe of purple gowns. You are so observant._"

Maude had pursed her lips grimly and looked back down at her work. "_Don't get snippy with me, Lady Alanna. Goddess knows I've put up with enough of your escapades in the past, that I have. You should be grateful that I'm keeping silent about the leggings that you've smuggled into your chest_."

Alanna had felt immediately contrite. It really wasn't Maude's fault that she was being exiled. Maude was simply the chief healer. And it was true that the healer had kept silent about many things that could have, in the past, hastened the trip to the convent. But soon the conversation had turned back to what Maude stubbornly called her destiny.

"_You'll find your place, mistress. It just might take a while."_

"I _know where I belong. __I'm skilled with weapons, Maude; even Coram said I was a natural. I ought to be out there fighting some great, evil…thing!_"

Maude had been unimpressed as she ordered Alanna to fetch a bundle of herbs – specially prepared for Alanna's journey – from the chief healer's room. Alanna had taken one step – just one – and had promptly stumbled into a piece of furniture, ripping an entire section of her new gown. The oaths that flew from her mouth both startled and horrified the older woman.

"_Have caution, Lady! You best show respect towards the gods. They'll not take your swears lightly…_"

Alanna had rounded on the healer, purple eyes blazing. "_Do you even think that they care whether or not I swear at them? Do you even think that they're interested in the pitiful lives of us mortals? Do you? It doesn't really seem like it, does it? I don't think they give a copper whether we mortals live or die, just as long as we thoroughly entertain them while we're at it_."

"_Alanna _–"

"_I've prayed, Maude. Don't think I haven't. It's just that they've never answered my prayers before. They've never helped me. Because," _her words rang with defiance,_ "they - don't - listen_."

"It's true," Alanna muttered to herself, staring blearily at the swells of grey that drifted past the carriage. She twitched her nose uncomfortably, stifling the urge to sneeze. "For all we know, there _are_ no gods."

"I wouldn't exactly go that far," a deep female voice replied. "Sure, it is true that we do not always curry to the favour of every chit that demands an audience. But we _do_ exist, though mortals may often wish otherwise."

Alanna slowly lifted her head, took a deep breath – and sneezed. She sniffed, refusing to look away from the scenery (even though there wasn't much, just fog rolling on fog and even _more_ fog…) that spun past the window. "So tell me, O wondrously practical One. How do you gods choose those who are deserving enough for answers?"

The Voice sounded cool and unconcerned, yet the underlying power in it made Alanna flinch. "Did it ever occur to you, O wondrously insolent one, that sometimes the answer granted is a negative one?"

"Maybe. I just find it hard to believe that you take everything into account before making your decisions." Alanna turned her head at last and dared look the Voice full in the face.

It was not long before she had to look away. She had seen a simply clad Lady, tall and graceful, with long ebony hair and vivid emerald eyes. Eyes that had pierced Alanna to the core of her heart. It was an uncomfortable feeling, having her entire soul laid bare in the matter of one cool glance.

"I believe," murmured the Lady, "that I fully comprehend your situation."

Alanna closed her eyes. Somehow, it seemed easier to talk to the Lady this way. "Okay, so maybe you do understand. But answer me this, if you would. Why? Why was my request refused?"

"Ah, well that depends upon which request you are asking about." The Lady's voice was rich with amusement; the sound of a hundred sweet, clear bells ringing splendidly in the undertones. "Are you referring to the request where you wanted me to turn you into a man, or the one about making frogs drop out of your brother's mouth every time he opened it to snitch on you?"

Alanna blinked. "You must be the Goddess."

A laugh, melodious and lovely. "Yes, O insolent one, I am."

Alanna forgot her uneasiness about looking at the Goddess and stared intently at the deity. Gwyneth was cradled in the Goddess' lap, looking angelic in her slumber. The child stirred only once, to grasp a handful of the Goddess' emerald gown. The Goddess bent her regal head and gently kissed the child's forehead.

"They are sweet when they're young," the Goddess remarked thoughtfully.

Alanna almost rolled her eyes. "But not when they are older."

"No, not when they're older. When they grow old, they become insolent."

Alanna had the grace to blush. The Goddess smiled gently at her. "You would do well to follow the words of the healer. A little respect is never amiss…but never mind that. It is time we talked, you and I."

"I've never asked for a gods-blessed visit," Alanna informed the deity. "I simply want answers."

"That is a small request and not at all a foolish one, considering what awaits you down this road."

"The convent," Alanna groaned. "I'd rather kiss a dead toad."

The Lady's eyebrows rose, delicately questioning. "That could very well be arranged, if you so wish."

Alanna pointedly ignored the offer. "What I would like to know is simple: Why can't I be a knight?"

The Goddess' amusement faded. "For many reasons. Mostly because your destiny lies elsewhere. We have plans for you, young one. Also, there is a law forbidding female participation in battles. We gods do not like to meddle with the laws of men."

"It's a stupid law," Alanna declared. "There are records of women warriors dating over a hundred years back. What made the king ban them from the battlefield?"

"The last female fighters date back to the reign of King Gregory. His sister was slain in battle while defending him. He was distracted by the loss and a good portion of Tortall was lost to Tusaine that day. As a result, women were ruled out as distracting influences on the king's men and thus, all women were sent home to their families and fiefs." The Goddess looked troubled. "It was for the good of the country."

"Distracting influences on the king's men?" repeated Alanna incredulously. "I have no plans of being distracting. I could have disguised myself. And, anyway, no one would care if I lived or died."

"On the contrary, I can think of at least three people who would be greatly devastated if you died…but that is beside the point. There are more reasons as to why you could never be a knight," said the Goddess. "Physical reasons. Your breasts would have developed; your monthly bleeding would have started; and bathing, indeed, would have been difficult to maneuver without losing cover. It would not have been long before your sex was discovered and you were sent home in disgrace."

"It would have been worth it," stated Alanna flatly. "If I had been sent home in disgrace, I would be marked as unfit for marriage. That alone would have made the attempt worth while."

The Goddess' voice was soft. "Are you that opposed to finding love, my daughter?"

"Love?" Alanna scoffed. "My father would have given me in marriage to the wealthiest suitor; most likely the one I hated the most. Marriage has nothing to do with love. And besides, I don't need love."

The Goddess smiled quietly. "You may find otherwise, someday." The slender outline of the deity's body was growing faint. The Lady shifted Gwyneth from her lap to the seat and leaned forward to gently brush Alanna's forehead with a slim hand.

"You have a tough road ahead of you, my daughter. With no mother to guide you, and with no friends in reach…I wonder if you are strong enough."

Alanna met the Goddess' eyes steadily. "Strong enough for what? I fear nothing."

The Goddess was fading fast, her voice a mere whisper that lingered in the coach before the wind caught it and whipped it away. "You are only human, Alanna of Trebond. Nothing more."

And Alanna was once more alone with the sleeping Gwyneth and her own troubled thoughts.

«

If being a hero means giving up your life, would you rise to the occasion? Would you be the first one in line, the first to throw yourself at the mercy of a bloody axe aimed for your sovereign's head? Would you be willing to give up your goals, ambitions…everything…to make sure that the ones you love are safe? I often wonder this. Whether I'd be strong enough, I mean. What if I fail, later on, to do my duty? What if I lose all courage and run away?

--_Lady Elisyn of Conté, sister to King Gregory_

«

"Matthew?"

The shout sounded uncomfortably close to her ear. She ignored it - and the sudden jerks that shuddered through the carriage's frame as the carriage began to pick up speed. Matthew, the driver, was well known for his liking of ale. Most likely he had drunk a little too much and given the horses free reign.

Her dreams enveloped her again, teasing away her grasp on reality and turning her thoughts once more to the gods. Did she really have that conversation with the Goddess? Maybe that, too, had been a dream. She didn't really care. The fog made her want to sleep and forget.

One of the horses whinnied. There was a strange thud.

"Matthew!"

The cart jolted. Someone cursed. Another thud.

Sleep was obviously not going to be had. Alanna sat up abruptly and rubbed her eyes, feeling very frustrated. She pushed back the velvety curtain that covered the window.

Fog. Had it gotten thicker?

Something flashed in, brushing a stinging blow against her ear as it passed. Alanna quickly let go of the curtain and dropped to the floor. The child was already awake, her blue eyes scared as she slid noiselessly off her seat to join Alanna.

"An arrow," Gwyneth whimpered. "Someone shot it, right there." The child pointed to opposite wall, right about where Alanna's head had once been.

Alanna rubbed her face tiredly. "Scanrans."

Outside, they could hear the muffled curses of the guards as they slowed the carriage. A disheveled lieutenant opened the door quickly and grabbed Alanna's arm.

"Lady, get your maidservant and go."

Alanna frowned. "Why?"

The guard looked grim as he leaned farther in and pulled a cloth-wrapped package from under the seat. "Scanrans," he said simply as he deftly undid the ties and withdrew a quiver of arrows and a longbow.

"I _know_ that there are Scanrans," Alanna hissed, keeping her voice low. "What are they doing here?"

He smiled thinly. "Attacking us, I'd say, milady." He shoved the weapons into her hands.

Alanna stared numbly at the weapons. Her bow. Who had slipped it in there? Had they been expecting an attack?

Another small item fell from the folds of the packing cloth. Complete with leather leg-sheath, the throwing knife was as perfectly crafted as any Alanna had seen before. Wordlessly, she strapped the sheath to her leg and slung the quiver over her shoulder. She could hear the sound of arrows thudding mercilessly against the carriage, and the shouts of the Trebond guards at they retaliated. She bit her lip and turned back to the guard.

"How many?"

The guard was already gone, leaving the door swinging open.

Sighing explosively, Alanna grabbed Gwyneth's arm and carefully slid out of the carriage, whispering instructions to the child. "Trebond is that way. Don't go on the road. Stay in the denser parts of the forest. If you have to, use your Gift to protect you."

They were within the forest, finally. Alanna turned to the child. "If you –" She stopped abruptly. Gwyneth held a glowing ball of flame, coloured red. It lighted up the little girl's face, illuminating the fear in the child's eyes.

"I can only make fire," Gwyneth whispered, on the verge of tears. "I won't be able to make it to the fief alone. _Please_ –"

Alanna sighed. "Two are more easily seen than one," she explained softly, then smiled. "You can do more than I, Gwyneth. Light one of them on fire, if you can."

The child looked stunned by the thought. "Like a candle?"

"Yes. A great, big, glowing candle. And when you reach Trebond, tell my father about the attack."

Gwyneth hesitated. "Aren't you going to the fief, too?"

"I'm going to fight with the guards," said Alanna flatly, drawing an arrow from the quiver. "Now _go_."

She was tired of people telling her that she was important only because of her monetary value to the fief. And to leave the small group of guards in the middle of an attack would be the height of cowardice. She had seen Matthew's body slumped over, studded with arrows, when she had ran for cover in the forest. To imagine the rest of her guards dying to protect her – when she could do nothing to deserve their loyalty – stung Alanna. She had skills, and she could put them to use.

Alanna ducked as she ran forward and flattened her form against the side of the carriage. There were Scanrans everywhere…more than was usual for a typical raid. The heavy fog was both a boon and a curse – it offered temporary relief for the guards, but it also masked the movements of the Scanrans' greater numbers. The arrows that rained down upon the carriage's remains would soon slaughter everyone in that area, even those fighting for the barbarians.

Taking a quick, cautious look around the corner, Alanna notched the arrow to her longbow, took careful aim, and fired. The arrow sped silently into the fray, taking a Scanran in the throat just as the man was slashing down at one of Trebond's tired swordsmen. He toppled over soundlessly. The guard stared numbly at his former opponent's body, then dispatched it by swiping off the Scanran's head. Alanna recognized the guard as the sarcastic lieutenant. Their eyes met – and he grinned and waved.

His wave stopped sluggishly in midair as an arrow took him in the back.

A wave of hot anger washed over Alanna; couple with the sick realization that, had the guard not seen her, he would have been more alert to the enemies around him. Maybe she was nothing but a burden after all. Maybe staying to fight had only made things worse.

A scream of rage bubbled up in her throat, choking her. Almost blindly, she reached for another arrow, scanning the area for a better target. Some Scanrans were beating red flames off their backs, yelling obscenities… strange; she had not noticed them before… A shadowy form on horseback was gliding among the trees at the far end of the battle. She set her sights on that and fired.

The arrow whistled shrilly as it flew through the air, and the shrouded horseman had little time to react. It slid from the horse and crumpled to the ground.

Everything was suddenly very clear. The dense fog was gone and Alanna could see exactly how many Scanrans – no, not just Scanrans…

But the bloody bodies of her guards were what next caught her eye. There had been little hope for any of them in the beginning, and less hope for them now. Alanna had barely lifted her eyes from the six bodies of her former comrades before the seventh guard, screaming a challenge as he charged a horseman, was slain by a Tusaine officer.

She barely knew what to do, or even if doing anything would much help. As if from afar, she watched herself raise her longbow and fire, killing the murdering Tusaine officer where he stood. Another arrow was notched to the bowstring, another arrow fired… Strong hands grabbed her from behind. She kicked out, and jammed the longbow's length into the attacker's soft flesh. More soldiers closed in.

It happened very swiftly. Somehow, her bow was knocked from her hands, the quiver yanked from her shoulder and tossed away. Her left arm hung useless, throbbing dully with pain, but she could still reach her knife with the right hand. Her hand closed around the haft of the knife and she stabbed blindly.

And then she felt a sharp sting in her side.

For the first time of her life, Alanna felt helpless…helpless and scared. She didn't want to die. But her vision was darkening; and the sluggish, roiling pain that was spreading from her side and prickling inwards could only mean one thing: poison.

As her eyes clouded over, the last thing she saw was the face of a Tusaine man, his features distorted with hatred.

"You killed my brother," he spat, his words echoing oddly in her head as her mind slowly misted over. She felt cold…

"May the Dark God grant no mercy!"

Hm. I think this is slightly better than the previous times I rewrote it. Hopefully, anyway. It is certainly longer! A full nine pages this time. Aren't you proud of me, my little muffins? Anyway, review if you wish. I enjoy hearing from you guys.

**Soundtrack** (songs that I listened to while writing this):

· _Sad Exchange_ – Finger Eleven

· _Everywhere_ – Michelle Branch

· _I Still Believe_ – Jeremy Camp

· _Numb_ – Limp Bizkit

Zenin

_Special thanks to my betas, acbworm and Kari. _


	4. Chapter Three

**Forgotten Dream**_  
_by Senbazuru

«

The atmosphere in the fief of Trebond was heavy with anxiety. An unexpected attack on a lady's carriage, slaughtering all men-at-arms and killing the lady herself…such brutality was uncommon, even for Scanran raids. Usually, the raiding Scanrans had reasons – good or bad – for their attacks. For instance, only the previous year Scanrans had attacked a tiny, unprotected village fourteen miles northeast of Trebond in the Grimmold Mountains.

It had been an easy target. The village had been thoroughly plundered, once all the opposing villagers had been taken care of. The Scanrans took the livestock and horses, wagonloads of supplies, and all the gold and silver they could find – though there was not much in such a small village.

There had always been a huge problem with Scanran raiders. They were renowned for being consistently dishonorable, and they themselves never missed an opportunity to refresh this opinion. Still, it was confusing as to why they would attack a lady's coach. What was there to gain?

Seeing as they had destroyed the coach itself and burned everything else with magefire…nothing.

Lord Alan was, as usual, quiet when the news of his daughter's death came to him. He stood still for a moment, papers in hand, staring into space. Then he seemed to give himself a shake.

"Her body?"

Coram's voice was steady. "Unrecovered."

"Ah."

There fell a long silence between the two. Lord Alan's face was pale, but set. "A burial must be arranged."

Coram was surprised at how well the lord was taking it. "Yes, milord. D'you –"

"Do I _what_?"

"Want to retaliate?"

"No. It's not necessary. Alanna was reckless, and no doubt she was meant to end this way." He made the sign of the gods on his chest. "The gods know what they are doing."

"Forgive me for sayin' so, but you don't seem very sorry about any of this."

It was a bold statement to make, but true. Lord Alan never displayed great amounts of emotion at any time…yet one would think he would show some remorse over his daughter's death. Even if he had expected her to die so early in life.

Lord Alan's eyes burned, and his voice turned steely. "No man should have to bury his daughter."

Coram bowed stiffly and left the lord alone in the library. The matter was not brought up again.

Not with the lord of Trebond, anyway.

The villagers had expected the chief healer to be grieving for many months to come. Maude, however, was as calm as if nothing had ever happened. She steadily wove bandages as Coram paced back and forth in front of her. His face was pale and his eyes red.

"Why?" he exploded suddenly. "Why attack _her_? Why was everythin' burned?"

Maude was silent, focused on weaving. Coram continued, agitated. "There was nothin' to gain. Nothin' at all. Kill a lady? Murder her pathetic little escort? I should've sent more guards. I should've –"

His eyes fell on the silent Maude. "Dammit, woman! Speak! You loved her every bit as much as I did. She's dead now! Have you no feelin'?"

Maude was quiet. She kept her eyes on her hands, steadily weaving away. "The gods know what they are doing, Coram Smythesson."

"The _gods_." He started pacing again. "We all know what Alanna thought of them. Are they angry enough to destroy a little girl just because she 'ad some reasonable doubts?"

Maude finally looked up, her expression stern. "Be silent, Coram!"

He opened his mouth to retort, but she smoothly interrupted. "You remember how, seven years back, I read the fire to determine Alanna's destiny? To see whether or not her plan to become a knight would work?"

Coram's face paled. He hated magic. He nodded shortly.

"Then you must trust me when I say that the gods do have a plan. This plan, Coram, goes beyond mere death."

«

"Eh…what's this, here?" muttered a gravelly voice. A sharp exclamation of pain soon followed.

"It's a knife, stupid."

The second voice was clear and quiet – a bit sinister. A brief silence followed, then the gravelly voice spoke again.

"What're we going to with _that_?"

"The girl?" Footsteps neared the place where the body of an auburn-haired girl lay in a crumpled heap – her pitiful form barely visible in the light of the flickering campfire. A young, dark haired man stooped to glance at the young woman's face.

"She may still be alive," he observed coolly.

The other man leapt to his feet. "Then let's off her, quick!" he snarled, brandishing a slim, familiar-looking blade. He rushed forward – only to be tripped by the dark haired noble.

"Leave her be. I may want to chat with her when she awakens."

The first man got up painfully, dusting twigs and dirt from his ragged tunic. His ugly face twisted into a feral grin. "You mean –"

The dark haired noble curled his lip in disgust. "No, Maurel. Unlike you, I am above such things."

"What's the use of talking? She killed Racinth. She oughtta be dead."

The noble narrowed his dark eyes at his troublesome companion. "And do you not wonder how she managed to do that? How she managed to penetrate the magical barrier of one of your strongest mages, and kill him…armed with nothing but a simple longbow and the very blade you are holding? And how," he mused, more to himself than the Scanran, "did she still survive?"

"It don't matter how she survived," Maurel argued. "_If_ she survived. Jarek was right when he darted her. The girl oughtta be dead – and t'stay dead."

The noble smiled slightly and resumed his reclined position beside the fire. "_That_ is why I am the one in charge of this expedition, Maurel. Not Jarek, not you. Me. It is my decision whether the girl lives or dies. And, at the moment, I want her to live."

A flicker of movement attracted the nobleman's attention. The young woman was moving, her hand reaching up to her face to weakly brush flame coloured hair from her eyes.

Then there was a flash of movement. The dark haired young man threw himself forward to block the Scanran's path. A sword seemed to materialize in his fist. "My patience with your moronic displays of rebellion is rapidly dissipating, Maurel."

The Scanran simply stumbled backwards, his eyes fixed on the sword. The noble smiled dryly and saluted mockingly. He sheathed his blade and turned to look at the young woman.

Her red hair fell into her eyes, hiding them as she slowly dragged herself upright. Her eyes shut tightly as her hand accidentally brushed against a bloody gash on her forehead. She swayed unsteadily and began to slump to the ground.

An arm steadied her, holding her upright. She forced her eyes open, stifling the pained moan that was desperately trying to escape her lips. A face swam into view. Dark eyes, dark hair…the nobleman. He helped her into a sitting position and released her.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Wouldn't you like to know," she whispered. She closed her eyes, taking deep breaths as she tried to remember how she had gotten there…and who she was. She was wearing a dark purple gown – or the remains of it, anyway – that was coated thickly with mud and splattered with red-brown stains. Blood?

She felt her forehead carefully, gingerly brushing her fingertips against the half crusted-over wound over her left eyebrow. It would probably leave a scar.

The young woman breathed out, and let her hands fall tiredly to her sides. One hand came in contact with something sharp and pointed. She let her fingers curl around the object and opened her eyes, watching the two men warily.

The younger man ignored her, tending to the fire by feeding it branches that had fallen during a recent storm. He was of medium height and fit; a surprisingly slender man of clearly noble lineage. He wore black breeches and tunic, the ensemble surprisingly plain save for the muted accent of silver in the tunic's lining.

The other man, however, was quite different. He was short and squat, his gaze fixed on her with surly malevolence. He sneered.

"It don't matter whether you tell your name or not. We already know that you're Trebond's daughter."

Trebond. Her memory returned. She was Alanna of Trebond, misfit daughter to a respectable lord, on her way to the convent to be put away once and for all. And these men had murdered her countrymen –

Wait. Why wasn't _she_ dead?

Alanna cautiously slid a hand behind herself in search of a weapon – anything, really.

"Looking for something?"

The noble's low voice made her jump. He was watching her, a small smile on his face, his dark eyes studying her. "If you are," he said, "it won't work. All your weapons have been confiscated. Your bow was burned with the bodies and your knife has been – shall we say – repossessed."

The Scanran grinned nastily. He waved the dagger in her face. "Too tired to fight now, eh? Why, I'd like to –"

"For heaven's sake, Maurel, will you _shut up_?"

Maurel glowered his hatred at the noble. Alanna felt oddly like laughing. She bit her knuckle to stifle the sound. To laugh now would be a huge mistake, considering the mutinous glares the Scanran was sending.

"You ain't Scanran." seethed Maurel. "You got no charge over me. I can say what I like."

"You cannot say anything if your tongue is missing."

The Scanran paled and became silent. The noble was a vicious man, for all his quiet demeanor. Alanna inwardly shivered…then became thoughtful.

Her strength was returning. A moment ago, she was barely able to raise her hand. Now she could sit up by herself and was moving more freely every moment. Her balance was back – as well as something else.

Somewhere deep inside – in the very core of her being – a purple fire she had never noticed before was steadily beginning to burn brighter. It flared wildly as it sent tendrils of misty lavender shooting through her veins.

Magic.

_Gods above_, Alanna breathed silently. _I have the Gift?_

«

"Your daughter is dead."

"She's dead."

"Like the mother."

"Slain…I saw it myself…"

"Three of them downed her."

"You could see the signs of struggle as clear as anything."

"No body. They must've burned it with everything else."

"She's dead."

Alan of Trebond lowered his head to rest in his hands. He breathed raggedly, the harsh sound of his dry sobs echoing in the stillness of the forest glade. The mound of earth, the burial place of his daughter's charred bow and quiver, was clustered with small bunches of flowers – mementos the villagers had place there in respect to the girl's courage.

"She's dead."

Alanna's former archery ground was now her tomb.

* * *

Hm. Better? Worse? Too simple? Or confusing? Whichever way, let me know your thoughts on this. And ye have a good dee, thankee, marm. 

Random quote:

"I drink because it intensifies my personality."

"Yes, but what if you're already an idiot?"

**Soundtrack** (songs I listened to while writing this)

· _Hold On_ – Good Charlotte

· _Who Am I?_ – Casting Crowns

· _Bring Me to Life_ – Evanescence

· _Mary Goes to Jesus_ – The Passion of the Christ soundtrack

--Senbazuru--


	5. Chapter Four

**Forgotten Dream**_  
_by Senbazuru

_«  
It had been dragged back to the whole matter of choice. Chocolate or vanilla? Live like a coward or die like a hero? Not that I was much of a hero…but you'll learn more about that later on._

_The point is that I made a choice. Big or small, I decided where my life was going to go – and where it ended. The gods only knew why I was alive.  
«_

It was the stillness that aroused Alanna from her sleep. That, and the terrible ache that had settled in her body. She cracked one eye open, and simply lay there, gathering in her surroundings.

The sunny brightness of the morning revealed things that had formerly been hidden by the previous night's fog. Numerous tents, cleverly disguised to blend in with the vegetation, dotted the landscape beyond the encircling trees. There must have been at least twenty of the tents. Somewhere to the far right of the clearing, the gentle waft of cook fire smoke trailed thinly into the air. Alanna pulled herself upright, pausing when her hands met the coarse fabric of a cloak.

Someone had, during the night, covered her.

Why would her enemies do that? What did they want with her anyway?

She shook her head briskly. Forget about it. They obviously only wanted her alive so that they could…

"He wants to talk to you."

Her head snapped up. For the first time, she noticed the dark skinned man. He was leaning against a tree across the clearing, his arms folded; watching her. The man had a surprisingly booming voice and commanding air, but she didn't like the look in his eyes. His eyes were a deep, coal black; and were focused on her intently – almost malevolently.

Well, what else did you expect from a murderer?

"Isn't that nice," Alanna mused out loud. "_He_ wants to talk to me. How thoughtful. How generous. Would you be so kind as to tell whoever he is to go to hell?"

The man's expression remained stoic, his voice flat. "He's waiting by the fire. If you want to eat, go."

She felt strongly like gesturing obscenely at the man in reply, but decided against it. She felt famished. Any food that was available – even if it came from the hand of her captors – would be better than none at all. Unless, of course, it was poisoned…

Alanna barely had time to shove these thoughts to the back of head before the dark-skinned man strode across the clearing and grabbed her hair with one fist, hauling her upright. His formerly passive expression was tainted with malice.

"I'm sick of watching you, witch," he growled, his eyes dark with fury. "Get out of my sight before I disobey his orders and slay you where you stand!"

He shoved her away. Alanna's feet caught on the tattered hem of her skirts as she stumbled forward, trying to regain her balance. She tugged the borrowed cloak closer to herself, glancing back at the man as she headed towards the smoke.

Witch. That was the first time anyone had ever called her that. Ever. It was strange to hear such a word used to describe her. And an odd choice of a word at that. Witch. A witch was an illegitimate source of magic – someone who used their Gift for darker sorceries.

As far as Alanna knew, it was only by the grace of the gods that she was alive. As for the Gift…well, she wasn't too sure what she had seen and felt previously really happened. Maybe she had just been delirious. A flash of purple, a tingling sensation…was that really supposed to be magic?

There were too many damn questions, Alanna decided, shaking her head briskly to clear her tangled thoughts. She limped through the trees, giving only the quickest of sidelong glances at the men who appeared at the doorway of their tents as she passed by. None looked too friendly.

The campfire had dwindled to glowing embers, giving off only the barest threads of filmy smoke. The noble, however, was nowhere to be seen. Instead, the Scanran from last night was sprawled comfortably against a tree and snoring uproariously. A flask and a half eaten loaf of bread lay at his side. And a basket, prettily woven of dry river reeds.

Alanna's eyes narrowed.

Maude's basket.

A purple flame fluttered fiercely, burning brighter in the depths of Alanna's unusual eyes. Her temper soared. All her physical pain was forgotten…and all the memories of her capture and the brutal slaying of her friends flooded her mind. Her knife being stolen from her, her bow and quiver being burned, the noble's mocking smile, Maurel leering in her face and striking her across her head with the hilt of the stolen blade…

And now, to add insult to injury, the filthy beast had eaten her picnic.

Now _that_ was just going a bit too far above the acceptable mark of nastiness. Okay, maybe her stomach was speaking for her – but still, the Scanran clearly needed a lesson in manners taught to him. And Alanna was only too willing to be the teacher.

She crept silently across and knelt a safe distance of three metres from the sleeping man. It took a moment of careful scrutiny, but she finally saw it. A glint of silver – her throwing knife – tucked into the Scanran's belt.

Her stomach grumbled loudly. She punched it angrily, forcing the grumbles to cease. Oh, the bread was tempting…no, not now. Her knife was the priority.

Alanna was beside the Scanran in a moment. She leaned forward, breathing a prayer to the Goddess as she carefully pinched the hilt of the knife between her fingers.

For a moment, all was well. The knife was slowly sliding from its place and falling into her waiting hand – and then Alanna lost her balance.

Spinning her arms wildly, she flung herself backwards; the knife clutched tightly in one hand. The sudden snapping of twigs beneath her feet reverberated loudly.

Maurel awakened with a start. His reaction timing was good – he jumped to his feet, his hand grasping for the knife that was no longer tucked in the belt. Then he saw the blade in Alanna's hand…and without a sound, he threw himself at her.

Alanna twisted to the side and slashed downwards, but the Scanran had the advantage. He was already on his feet and stomping downwards on the hand that was holding the knife. Alanna grunted in pain as something in her wrist crunched. The knife slid from her grip. In a flash, Maurel had the knife and was pressing it against her throat, pinning her to a tree.

"Scum," Alanna snarled.

"Witch," he growled back, grinning. "Now where's your precious protector? Not 'ere, is he? Well," he pressed the knife harder. "That's just too bad, ain't it? You're finally gonna die."

"I think not."

There was a clash of steel upon steel as a sword slashed between the two, sending the knife flying from the Scanran's grip. The sword whirred with white-hot speed to intercept the Scanran's attempt to go after the fallen knife. Maurel stopped with a jerk, his face whitening at the nearness of the deathly blade.

"The pitiable thing about you, Maurel, is that you never listen. Which means, eventually, I will have to kill you. However, since we, as humans, are creatures of choice, you can choose the time. Now –" the sword tip was leveled at the base of the Scanran's neck, " – or later?"

Maurel sputtered, his face deathly pale. "L-later..."

The noble's dark eyes held only disgust as he turned away and sheathed his blade. "Very well. Until then, I must ask you to leave our prisoner alone. Like…now."

The Scanran hastily snatched up the throwing knife and left.

The noble sighed and ran a hand through his dark hair. "Scanrans," he muttered, almost too quiet to be heard. Alanna stared at him.

"Who are you?" she asked bluntly.

The noble smirked. He seated himself on a folding contraption and stretched out his legs, staring at the dying embers of the fire. "I think I will use your reply to that question and say: 'wouldn't you like to know?'"

"I would."

"You're about to be disappointed, then. You see, knowing names gives one advantage over others. I know your name, Trebond. Purple eyes are not that common. But as for giving my name to you…hm…I see no special reason to do so." He gestured to another seat like his own. "Have a seat."

She lifted her chin. "No."

He studied her briefly, then shrugged. "Suit yourself." He stretched out his legs and began speaking again.

"We are going to travel a distance, and even though we have been unexpectedly burdened with you, our pacing shall remain the same. No little powder-puffed lady is going to slow us down, and if that does begin to happen, I shall have to kill you. Keep your eyes to yourself, keep your _hands_ to yourself, and I daresay if another attempt at stealing occurs, I will be forced to tie your hands and feet together in a most undignified way. Am I understood?"

She couldn't believe how cold he was. The noble spoke of her capture with such indifference! People had died…his own men had died…and he acted as if their lives were worth _nothing_.

"No," Alanna said forcefully. "You are _not_ understood. Why did you attack us in the first place? We carried nothing important; no riches or anything. We weren't even as many as you – and you slaughtered us!"

"Them," he corrected in a bored tone. "We slaughtered _them_. The attempt made on _your_ life apparently failed. Anyway, your countrymen were doing their job. They were told to protect you. The one way they could have done so, considering the circumstances, was to create a distraction by sacrificing themselves. Clearly, their plan would have served its purpose – had you actually played your part as they asked."

"Are you saying that their deaths are my fault?" Alanna whispered, her eyes flashing dangerously.

"You said it," the young man countered. "Not I. You have to admit that, had you done what they asked, their deaths would not have been so senseless." He turned in his seat to stir the dying embers of the campfire to life again. "I wonder," he remarked softly, "what exactly you were thought to prove by defying loyalty and common sense."

She lunged to strike at him, a sob ripping from her throat. "_Bastard!_"

He caught her wrist, easily deflecting her pitiful blow and swiftly catching her chin with his other hand. For a moment, he simply held her, smiling slightly. "You will die the next time you try that," he murmured.

She was motionless, the feel of his vice-like grip as clear a warning as anything. "If I live, it's only to kill you later."

A curious expression crossed his face, and he smiled crookedly as he released her. "Then may the gods be with you, milady."

Alanna stood there, stunned. The noble rose from his seat and stretched luxuriously. He turned his back on her and began to rummage in a bulging sack.

"As you may have noticed, you have managed to attract the enmity of almost everyone in camp. That," he threw her a glance over his shoulder, "is probably due to the fact that when you slew the mage, the magical backlash that was meant to kill you was repelled and ended up killing quite a number of their own comrades."

She was silent, simply glaring at the noble as he spun around and tossed a bundle of something at her. Alanna caught it and shook out the folds to reveal a pair of breeches and a coarse shirt. Patched, but serviceable.

"There are some ways that I cannot protect you," the noble said calmly. "I believe you would be somewhat safer if you wore those."

Alanna was struck by the irony of the situation. All her life, she had played and trained in her brother's castoffs – against the better judgment of her superiors. Now she had a chance to wear them freely, and this time, the breeches served as added protection.

She hated to admit it, but the noble's offer was a practical one.

"Well?"

Alanna looked up at the noble's annoyed face. "What?"

"Put the damned clothes on!"

Alanna's temper flashed and she threw the clothing to the ground. "I will not be treated like some imbecile! I am not your slave and I refuse to put these on!"

The noble turned his back and rubbed his forehead wearily. "Mithros… Don't make me force you."

Alanna jutted her chin forward challengingly. "If I make the decision to not wear them, then whatever ill befalls me is my own problem, not yours."

"Lady."

Alanna gazed at the shining steel that hovered a few inches from her nose.

"Put the clothes on. Now."

«

"I'm sorry to have bothered you, my liege."

King Roald's eyes darkened understandingly. "Not at all, Trebond."

Thom of Trebond tried to relax, but found that he could not. Not while the knowledge that his twin had been kidnapped lingered in his mind. His violet eyes flashed with controlled anger as he stared at the king before him. This was not the first time Thom had approached the King of Tortall, and it certainly would not be the last. "They have not yet found my sister?"

The king shook his head. "I'm sorry, Thom, but it appears that they have vanished. Not even his Grace, Duke Roger of Conté, could trace them."

Thom's lip curled derisively. Roger of Conté trying to track down the Scanrans that had kidnapped his sister? Now _that_ was a joke. He ran a hand through his tumbled red hair, vexed. It was bad enough to have his father turn into some sort of stone when hearing the news of his sister's "death". Now the king had given up hope.

The news of Alanna's death had sent Trebond into a chaotic mass of quivering nerves and tears. However, when the news reached Thom, he did not accept it. If Alanna had died, Thom would have known. They had a connection, the way most twins do, and it was still intact. He could feel her and knew that somewhere, his sister was alive and kicking. Literally.

Still, he could not let the Court settle back into a comfortable sense of routine while murderers held his sister captive. And leaving Alanna's fate in the hands of Duke Roger was definitely not on his list of priorities. Finally, the king was speaking again.

"Trebond? If that is all…"

"No, my liege," Thom interrupted calmly, meeting the king's eyes with an unsettling amount of force. "I request permission to track down the murderers and free my sister."

King Roald stared at the slender teenager in front of him. Thom of Trebond was no fighter – that much was obvious. To send this…boy…into the wild forests of Tortall would be close to committing murder himself. Roald smiled inwardly. Well, it _would_ rid him of the daily interrogations.

He shook his head suddenly, shocked by the barbaric thought.

"Trebond," he said with exasperation. "You have the duty to your knight master to fulfill. I leave this decision in the hands of Sir Geoffrey. Until then, I must ask you to restrain from taking up the time other people might need for requests."

Thom nearly rolled his eyes, but caught himself in time. "Yes, your Majesty. Thank you."

With a slight bow, he turned and left; smiling wryly to himself. _If everything were left in Sir Geoffrey's hands, the world would be a better place._

Sir Geoffrey was a solemn knight with sandy hair. Typically, he was a desk knight; and preferred to do his paperwork alone. However, when one of his friends bet one hundred nobles that he would never take a squire, it was too much to resist. Therefore, Thom of Trebond was squire to someone who never gave him orders, aside from the usual studies. All he had to do was ask and Sir Geoffrey would send him…and gladly.

Thom of Trebond was not the most genial of squires.

«

"Hurry up, witch."

The fire-haired young woman raised threatening eyes to the face of the speaker, a member of the Tusaine horseback division. He shut his mouth quickly and turned in the saddle, feeling the venomous glare of the girl pierce his back.

He hadn't asked to be the caretaker of the wench. It was an assignment. He had been randomly chosen…

Actually, he had gotten the short straw.

Damn.

He should have given the straw to Jarek. Jarek was the one who wanted to kill the girl. Personally, he didn't want anything to do with her. Especially since she had apparently already been killed by Jarek. If he had darted her as he said, then the girl really ought to be six feet under by now.

"Hey, you! I need to stop."

The Tusaine man stiffened, but kept his eyes forward. "No dice, witch. You had your chance four hours ago. We're not stopping now." He nudged his mount, urging it to a faster pace.

The girl's low growl of annoyance should have warned him.

The next thing he knew, the rope around his waist – the one that secured the witch on the other end – tightened…then sharply yanked back.

The girl watched with satisfaction as the man tumbled from the saddle. She walked back around the tree that she had used to loop the rope and jogged to the man's side. Her bound hands smarted, but not too badly. Leaning close, she swept her hair from her eyes and grinned dangerously at the Tusaine.

"Might we stop now?"

He scrabbled backwards. "P-per-perhaps…"

The sound of hoofs interrupted further play. Both the Tusaine and the girl looked up to see the silhouette of the noble gazing down at them. The noble simply smiled quietly.

"Jem?"

A man further up the moving cavalcade turned his horse back. "Yes?"

"Tie her up."

The man's craggy features split into a grin. "It'd be a pleasure, Tirragen."

* * *

So.

How's this? Better? Perhaps? I don't know. Tell me now, seriously, what do you think of Alex? Exactly what feeling is he giving you? I need to know how well his character is developing.

(And _ha_, acbworm, I did get it done by Friday. So you can stop glaring suspiciously at me now. )

**Soundtrack** (yes, I _know_ you all lay awake all night, wondering what I listen to while writing my blather…)

· _Valley Song_ – Jars of Clay

· _In the End_ – Linkin Park

· _Meant to Live_ – Switchfoot

--Senbazuru--


	6. Chapter Five

**Forgotten Dream**_  
_by Senbazuru

«  
_Tirragen. Alexander of Tirragen. So he was the one holding me captive. He was the one responsible for all this. He, a Tortallan knight, former squire to Duke Roger of Conté._

_I remembered hearing of him before, getting random bits of gossip from the merchants who passed through Trebond. "A wizard with swords," they had all said. Some went on to describe a few mock duels Tirragen had fought against visiting Tusaine noblemen. Apparently, he defeated every last one of the knights – effortlessly._

_He was my captor._

_A damned traitor was my captor._

_I had all the luck._

«

They were now traveling alongside the river Drell. Alanna succeeded in getting her bearings once they had arrived at the banks of the river, two days ago. It was slow moving, but they had managed quite well despite the rain that was pounding down. Actually, Alanna had noticed that their traveling technique was superior in some way, for they had managed to cover over one hundred miles in the space of three days. Not bad work, considering the number of soldiers. And the mud.

It was raining. No, not just raining…_pouring_. Water fell in sheets upon the already saturated earth and churned it into a sloppy mud that clung to everything it touched. Which made it especially difficult for a fast traveling speed.

They managed, though. Somehow, the mixed band of murdering marauders managed.

Alanna lay on her side, silently contemplating the heavy clouds. It was a rather cold day – freezing, by Alanna's standards. _Gods_, she hated being cold. Granted, the men's clothing probably was keeping her warmer than her tattered dress…

Still. _He_ had forced her to wear them. The filthy traitor had one so far as to draw his sword on her. Alexander of Tirragen… Tirragen the _Traitor_.

Her nose twitched. She fought the urge to sneeze, and settled instead for a rather unsatisfactory grunt of pain. The wrist Maurel had stepped on earlier was swelling up horribly. It wasn't broken, surprisingly. Just a serious sprain. It hadn't hurt at first…but now seemed to be growing much worse through all the stress she had put on it. Wrapping her bound hands around the tree earlier probably had not helped much.

A fat drop of rain splashed into one of her eyes. Alanna blinked furiously.

"No need t'cry, witch. We're not gonna burn you…yet."

Alanna glared at the cart driver. Formerly, she might have spat out a challenge or a curse…but the gag in her mouth kind of ruined that for her. Instead she had to be satisfied with just glaring, fervently wishing that the cart driver himself would catch fire.

There was a sudden _whump_ and the entire cart erupted in flames.

Everything happened very quickly after that. Alanna suddenly stopped feeling cold. A pleasant tingle of warmth was thrumming through her veins. Then she found that somehow, the rope that had bound her hands and feet together was gone…and so was the gag.

_And_ she was completely engulfed by lavender fire. A fire that didn't burn.

"OH GODS!"

Her, at least. A fire that didn't burn _her_.

Feeling very detached, Alanna watched as the cart driver flung himself from the wreckage. Frantically, he screamed curses and tried to beat off the fire that burned away at his clothes and flesh. Through the haze of the flames, Alanna could make out the indistinct forms of other men running towards her. Some of them were shouting for backup.

Why did they bother? Alanna wondered comfortably. They shouldn't care if she burned. According to Maurel, she was supposed to be dead anyway. Good riddance, they'd say. We finally got rid of the troublesome witch.

_Witch_.

She stared at her hands, then her arms…then her entire body. The fire had eaten away at her bonds…but everything else was completely fine. She felt no pain. If anything, the sensation of the purple fire gently stroking her skin was soothing. Alanna swayed for a moment – and sank to the ground. A strange feeling of exhaustion seemed to be sinking into her mind. She felt folds of soft black velvet enclose her thoughts, wrapping around her body like a cocoon, gentle and warm…

She closed her eyes.

"Douse the fire!"

The curt command sliced through her muddled thoughts – quickly followed by an uncomfortable stinging sensation. Cold seeped into her skin. Alanna began to shiver uncontrollably.

"She burned me," the stunned voice of the cart driver could be heard above the sound of hissing embers. "She burned me. The stupid witch. She burned me."

"Shut up!" someone snarled.

Someone jerked her to her feet, their fingers hard and unyielding. Her knees gave way as the voices faded and blackness claimed her mind at last.

«

Alexander of Tirragen was angry. Very angry – though one would never know to look at him. He wore the usual expression of calm as he swept aside the flap of his tent and ducked inside.

Even in the shadows of his private sleeping quarters, the knight remained perfectly composed. Shuffling through papers that covered the surface of an oaken chest, he soon uncovered a small crystal globe. He flopped down on his sleeping mat, globe in hand, and gazed at it.

"Olau," he murmured.

The globe flared with an intense wide light that soon faded to a soft glow, revealing in the depths of the crystal an aged face featuring red-rimmed eyes and thinning grey hair.

"Drunk again, I see."

The owner of the face shook his head. "Not drunk," he said thickly. "A hangover. There's a big difference, lad."

"With all due respect, my lord, I don't really give a damn."

The older man raised his eyebrows. "You're early. Why?"

"Complications."

The one word was said lightly, but carried world of meaning. The knight frowned at the slender noble. "Complications? What?"

Alexander of Tirragen sent the older man a look loaded with freezing scorn. "The girl, Myles. It would have been better if she had died in the initial attack."

"That's a completely different matter altogether, Alex. Why did you attack her coach in the first place?"

Alex brushed a hand across weary eyes. "I? You will kindly note that I was not present that moment." He gently set the crystal globe down and reached for a soft oiled cloth. "All the same, it made an awkward situation when I prevented them from further harming her. My position," Alex glanced up, "has been questioned."

"Well, you can't kill her," Sir Myles said flatly. "It would be a terrible murder on our hands."

He inwardly shivered at the expression in the young noble's dark eyes. "I'm a spy and an assassin. I do what I must. Taking one more life to accomplish my mission would make no difference."

"An injustice, then."

A note of danger entered Alex's voice, as sharp as the blade he held. "You can't speak to _me_ of injustice."

Myles decided to try a different approach. "She has displayed valuable power. Her reported death has made her only more potentially useful to the Crown. Unstoppable, untraceable…the perfect surprise to have on our side. The fact that she's a woman makes it all the more intriguing."

"Her power is newly discovered. She has no restraint. She almost killed herself today, in fact."

"She can be trained."

"In time, yes. But there is no time, Myles."

"There's time. A very limited amount, but I believe it's enough. This girl, Alex, could tip the balance in our favour. I need her. Alive."

Alexander of Tirragen closed his eyes – and with a perfectly controlled twist of his wrist sent the sword slamming half its length into the earth, a hair's breadth from the crystal. The oiled cloth drifted to rest over the globe, extinguishing the light.

For a moment, he remained still; listening to the wind stirring the crisp, dead leaves outside the tent. The murmur of the mercenaries' voices rose and fell as they grew merry over their ale. Somewhere in the deeper recesses of the night, the questioning hoot of an owl was answered by a deeper, throaty croak of a bullfrog.

He jerked the sword from the ground and wiped it clean on his bedding before sheathing it. Stretching slowly, he kicked the crystal globe and oiled cloth to clack against the base of the chest.

"Lord?"

Gods, he hated that title. Alex closed his eyes. "What?" he snapped curtly.

The voice, muffled by the tent's thick fabric, sounded tentative. "You mentioned that you wanted us to tell you when the girl wakes up and…"

"She's awake?"

"Well, no, but –"

"Then why the hell are you here?"

"Well, Kimble was going to secure the ford tonight, but, er…he…he's dead now and er…"

Alex grabbed his cloak and flung open the tent flap. The heavy, wet evening air swirled thickly around him; slowly soaking through his woolen tunic as he fastened the cloak around his shoulders. "I will do it."

"But lord –"

"By the Dark God!" Alex snapped suddenly. "Why is it I am constantly questioned by goddamned morons? Why?"

The soldier fell back, stunned by the sudden anger of the normally stoic noble. "Er…"

Alex stopped in mid-stride and turned to give the wizened soldier a cool once over. "What a good point. _Er_. Yes. I'll remember that." And then, with a barely muffled curse on his breath, the lord of Tirragen was gone.

The wizened mercenary stared blankly at the forest around him. He started as a voice addressed him from the trees.

"Didn't take _him_ long to get riled, did it?" Jem swaggered up to his fellow soldier and flung an arm around the thin shoulders of the other man.

The mercenary coughed and shrugged nervously, sweat prickling under his collar. He was unused to the companionable treatment he was receiving, and didn't like it. Trouble always followed friendliness. Didn't every good mercenary learn that early in life? "No. Er, he was, er, talking to himself again. In the tent. I heard him. Couldn't tell what he was saying, but I heard him."

"Really?" Jem looked gleefully speculative. He removed his arm from the soldier's shoulders. "Think he's conspiring against us?"

Another thing mercenaries had to learn early in life: speak less, live longer. He gave another wordless shrug, only glad to have Jem's arm gone.

An hour or so later, he watched from the comfort of the bonfire as Jem and two other Tusaine officers entered the commanding noble's tent. They soon emerged, the triumphant glint in their eyes telling all. "Get everything packed. We're gonna move to a better clearing two miles north of here."

The old mercenary shrank into the shadows. No one but he heard the murmured afterthought –

"Let's see how the traitor reacts to this…"

The mercenary tugged his threadbare cloak closer around himself, all thoughts of enjoying a comforting mug of hot mead forgotten. He melted into the forest, heading south as swiftly as he could hobble.

By noon tomorrow, the entire troop would be dead.

«

The harsh jangle of screaming bells roared in Alanna's ears.

_You stupid pig-headed little **brat**! I knew you were strong willed, but **stupid**? Foolish, yes, but **moronic**? Are you so cowardly as to choose suicide over a fight? To throw away the gift I **gave**? **That gift was meant to be kept!**_

Alanna's eyes flickered open…and she immediately longed to close them. The blinding whiteness of the air around her filled her eyes and pressed around her body. It was suffocating, yet infinitely spacious. Raw power. The type of power that Alanna had felt leaking from her spirit when the fire had erupted from her fingertips.

_Stand, mortal!_

Alanna arched her back painfully. She struggled to sit up – then faltered, her breathing hoarse and thick. A rattling cough clutched at her throat. She found herself on her back again, cold sweat trickling down her spine at the small effort she had made.

_Stand!_

A half formed whisper escaped her mouth, followed by a fit of coughing. "Can't."

_Oh, yes you can._

The coldness of ice shivered over her body, overlapping fierce crackling heat. Alanna's head finally fell back and cracked against the surface she rested upon. Through the haze of fever and pain, Alanna felt something cool softly drift against her cheek. She lifted one finger to touch the foreign thread, recognizing it briefly for what it was. It reared back at her touch and whipped around to slap her hard.

The world of dizzyingly white dissolved in a swirl of echoing, clamoring bells and one long scream.

"Trebond!"

Alanna lay there, stunned, as rainwater dripped from the trees overhead and splashed on her upturned face.

"By the gods…"

Alanna blinked hazily up at the face that hovered a few inches from her own. Someone's arm encircled her waist, cradling her against a warm, scratchily wooly chest. Her breathing sounded loud in her head. Other sounds reached her ears – the clang of swords, shields, the whinny of a frightened horse, the scream of a doomed man…

"Battle?" she croaked weakly, then another spasm of coughing wracked her body. The tangy taste of blood entered her mouth. She leaned to the side, spitting into the dirt.

The man ignored her question. "Can you stand?"

She shivered. "Yes." Pushing the helping arm away, she clutched at the tree closest to her and used it to –

Well, it was a valiant effort, at least. Alanna found herself back on the ground, leaning her forehead against the tree. The man had his back to her, talking to someone else.

The ring of steel upon steel lanced painfully through Alanna's mind. There was a brief scuffle, and grunt of pain. Then, silence.

Alanna felt more than saw the hands that raised her from the ground. She licked cracked lips and whispered, "Who are you?"

He paused. "For now…a friend."

* * *

Well. Finally. I think it's a little better than what it was before. Took me long enough, didn't it? Well, let me know your thoughts, if you have any. I'm going to start up the next chapter (Whee! A brand new never scripted before chapter! I'm sooo excited! Aren't you?).

God bless us, every one!

**Soundtrack**

· _All Alone_ – Kutless

· _Blurry_ – Puddle of Mudd

· _Behind Blue Eyes_ – Limp Bizkit

· _The Calling_ – The Benjamin Gate

· _Troubled Heart _– Kutless

«Senbazuru«


	7. Chapter Six

Warning: _Alanna_ _swears like a sailor in paragraph immediately following title. Sorry chaps, but this is how she's feeling now. Couldn't get her to shut up._

**Forgotten Dream  
**by Senbazuru

«

_And all this just to go to the damned Convent._ _Fuck the fucking gods. Plans for me? Plans for giving me a more excruciating death than is given to most mortals? Hey, I admit it; I killed one or two of those mages in the initial attack. But were they tortured like this? No. They were shot cleanly by arrows. Instantaneous death. I don't want people to suffer. Not even if they are my enemies. Well, with the exception of that evil Tirragen. Traitors deserve to die twice. But why me? Why did the fucking Goddess choose me?_

«

Jonathan of Conté, the Crown Prince of Tortall, was captivating.

He was the picture of knightliness: tall, devastatingly handsome, courteous, and skilled with weaponry. Long hours of exercises had molded his once boyishly slender frame to a well-muscled, yet still quite lithe, body of a man. A man who would one day be king. A man who spent his days of knighthood earning the fearsome reputation of a seasoned warrior; with a romantic flair for rescuing any fair maiden in distress.

Or, as was in this case, any grubby wretch covered in mud and dripping all over his father's best Yamani rug.

It was a small gathering in the King's council chamber, only consisting of the two young knights, the King and Queen, the King's spymaster, and the chief healer: Lord Queenscove. The Prince stood tall beside the couch of the filthy creature he had carried into the chamber, dark head bowed pensively. The King was frowning, rubbing his aching head as he struggled to find the correct words to say. He knew what he wanted to say: _Get that girl to the infirmary. And make **sure** she gets a bath. _But that wasn't diplomatic. And King Roald was the diplomatic King. The Peacemaker.

His queen, on the other hand, was quite open about her thoughts. "Oh _gods_," she whispered, horrified. "The poor child…" Her blue eyes narrowed as she leaned forward to peer closer at the limp form on the couch. "Um. This is…the daughter of Trebond, am I correct?"

"Yes," Jonathan looked down at the girl's body and tried to smile. "We found her on the outskirts of Scanra's western border, just about to cross the river." His eyes flashed with a strange combination of annoyance and triumph. "Scanra and Tusaine are allies."

"Do you know their reason for the attack?"

Sir Myles leaned forward in his chair to gaze happily at the near-unconscious young woman, completely ignoring the prince's discomfort. Instead, his eyes flicked to the still form of the other knight in the chamber: Alexander of Tirragen. Alex's eyes flashed briefly with secret amusement as he watched the prince. Then he noticed Myles, and his expression quickly turned blandly impassive.

This only made Myles more curious. The rivalry that existed between the two young knights always was a good source of entertainment. He swirled the wine in his goblet and lifted it to his lips to gulp down a warming mouthful, fighting back the urge to smile.

"Sir Myles," the King's voice cut through his cheery thoughts, "what do you have to say?"

Myles heaved himself to his feet. "Well, it has been obvious for some time that Tusaine and Scanra have formed an alliance with one another. This attack on the coach, however, is unusual. I would say that it was more accidental than anything else. I would say that they were trying to avoid notice when she stumbled upon them."

"So they were trying to cover their tracks? Or hide something? But why were they in Tortall territory? And what were they trying to hide?"

Myles drained his goblet. He set it down on the side table and turned to face the King, suddenly serious. "That, I do not know."

His words hung in the air. The King's head ached miserably. "Damned wine," he muttered under his breath. He turned to eye the silent Alex, who was casually leaning against the far wall, half hidden by the shadows. "Sir Tirragen. You were on a mission, I presume, when you met up with the abductors. Did you notice anything unusual?"

"Other than the fact that they were energetically trying to kill some defenseless lord's brat? No."

Jonathan's famous blue eyes narrowed. "How can we trust you? You're nothing but a _spy_." He spat out the last word venomously.

"I object to that," Myles slurred cheerfully.

Alex gave another one of his wry half smiles. "I'm sure you would have done much better, your Highness."

Jonathan glared sharply at the slender knight. "I think I did, in fact. We executed the entire company…without _your_ help, I noticed."

"Foolish," stated Alex calmly. "You might have been able to use some of the soldiers as informants. And I noticed that you forgot to search the perimeter before attacking. Any stray scouts might have gotten away."

"I placed a barrier around the edges of the camp before hand. No one could have escaped."

"I disagree. There is always the chance that someone might have slipped through."

The Prince's hand fell on the hilt of his sword, his blue eyes dark and flashing hotly. "You dare challenge my authority?"

Alex smiled dryly. "Are you feeling challenged, Conté?"

The King raised his eyebrows. Queen Leanne saved him from speaking. She stood, her white face tired. "The girl is the first thing to be attended to," she reminded her son. She walked over to lay a hand against the girl's burning forehead and jerked her hand back with a cry.

Lord Queenscove, who had been silently attending the unconscious Alanna, rose quickly and placed a steadying hand on the Queen's elbow, warm green magic tingling across his fingers. The King strode to his wife's side.

"What was that?" he demanded sharply.

The lord frowned and withdrew his hand from the Queen's arm. "A surge of power, your Majesty. Strange, foreign power. It could possibly have been quite deadly, had our Queen not been warded beforehand. As it is, Her Majesty's protective shield has weakened considerably in deflecting the power surge. She needs rest."

"I'm alright, really," Queen Leanne whispered, straitening. "It just surprised me, that's all."

"With all due respect, your Majesty, your health has always been fragile. I would recommend that you rest for the remainder of the day." He glanced at the King. "If I may, I would like to remove the girl to the infirmary for intensive healing. I do not want any other accidental bursts of power to target anyone else."

The King nodded shortly and The Queen – whose health was always a bit fragile – was escorted gently from the chamber, accompanied by her husband.

"Will she live?" the Prince wanted to know.

"Maybe. Yes. No. _I_ don't know. Just get out of the way, your Highness. If you want to be of use, help me lift her onto this stretcher."

«

Alanna awakened to the feeling of perfect warmth. She stretched comfortably and rolled over –

"Ouch!"

She breathed in sharply and rolled onto her back, gasping slightly. Pain crashed through her left side. It soon fell away as she lay still, gathering in her surroundings. Her eyes widened. Discomfort was forgotten.

She was in a canopied bed, several goose down quilts covering her. The room she was in was a grand suite; colorful tapestries gracing the cold stone walls and helping to keep the room relatively snug. The wide, curving window displayed the spectacular view of a huge city; and beyond the far reaches of the city's limits, the ocean spread out like a mantle of shimmering blue.

Alanna forced herself to sit up – and found it easier than expected. All her injuries had been healed. What pain she had experienced was fading into the dim past, leaving only faint bruises as reminders. She lifted a hand to her forehead groggily, and stopped. Her arm dropped back to her side and she struggled to her feet, forgetting all leaden weariness as she stared at the full-length mirror hanging on the eastern wall.

She was now wearing a simple, blue gown with a dark brown bodice laced up the front. The full sleeves flowed around her arms, shielding them from the light morning breeze that swept through the window. Her hair was a bright waterfall that fell loosely down her back.

Though it was nice being clean – not to mention clothed with fresh garments – Alanna glared dangerously at her reflection. Someone had dressed her.

Even worse, someone had _bathed_ her.

"Good morning. Or afternoon."

She spun around. The tall young man leaning in the doorway was almost unrecognizable at first…and then she saw his eyes.

"Thom!"

Her brother grinned. "You're looking…better."

Alanna opened her mouth to retort, then closed it as Thom stepped forward and hugged her gently. "I'm glad you are finally awake."

"_Finally_ awake?" Alanna repeated slowly, stepping back. "How long have I been asleep?"

"Oh," Thom crossed the room to close the window, "about three weeks."

"Three _weeks_?" Her eyes narrowed. "I was unconscious for three weeks? What did they do, drug me? Or did someone use their marvelous Gift to—"

"You had the Sweating Sickness," Thom interrupted flatly. He turned and gazed at his sister levelly. "Couldn't you read the symptoms? You were damn lucky to survive. Up until three days ago, you were – they were sure you were dying. Something was strange about the sickness…as if…" He stopped abruptly.

A long silence fell between them. Thom cleared his throat. "Why didn't you tell me you had the Gift?"

"_I_ didn't even know. I'm still not sure if I really _do_ have the Gift." She sighed and rubbed her head. "It's so unpredictable, whatever it is. It comes and goes…nothing all that useful."

A look of envy crossed her brother's face. "I'd give _anything_ to have the Gift. Anything. To be a sorcerer would be far greater than to be a knight. For me, anyway." His gaze was piercing as he stared at her. "When did you discover your Gift?"

Alanna shrugged uncomfortably. "Well, if what you say is true – about me being sick for three weeks, I mean – then I guess I discovered it about three and a half weeks ago."

Thom was silent, his eyes shadowed as he looked away.

"It wasn't expected, you know," Alanna blurted. "You could have it, too. I mean, it could come any day now. I'm sure you'll have it. We're twins, after all. We share everything."

"I –"

A sudden knock at the door interrupted Thom's reply. He straitened and strode to the door, opening it to admit a man no taller than Alanna. The man had a scholarly, kindly look about him. He nodded at Thom and bowed to Alanna, wheezing slightly as he straitened.

"Sir Myles of Olau, at your service," he said. His shrewd eyes quickly took in her various bruises and minor cuts that were still healing. He tugged his beard thoughtfully. "Squire Trebond, if you would be so kind…"

A displeased look flashed across Thom's face, and was just as quickly gone. He bowed stiffly and left the room, his eyes promising her another visit.

Alanna surveyed the newcomer suspiciously. "What do you want?" she demanded.

The aging, rumpled knight gave an amused shrug. "That would be based entirely upon your own comfort, my lady," he replied simply. He walked past her to seat himself comfortably in one of the chairs on either side of the fireplace. Shifting restlessly, Sir Myles glanced around her room. His gaze settled favourably on a small platter of cheese.

"No chance of brandy, eh?" he queried, popping a small piece of cheese into his mouth. "No matter. I shouldn't drink so much, anyway. It ages me – or so I've been told."

Alanna stared at him frankly. "Why are you here?"

"Good question." Myles swallowed. "Then again, most questions are usually good; 'tis simply the questioner who is, er, questionable." He smiled wryly and shook his shaggy head. "Too much time decoding riddles. That's what _that_ does to you. But I imagine you are not much of a riddler, are you? No. You seem to prefer action to deskwork."

At her silence, he continued, speaking slower as if to make sure each word was clear. "You have heard, I'm sure, about the various advantages of your situation. No? Then I shall inform you. You, I know, have always dreamed of becoming a knight." At her furious glare, he held up a hand to hold off her tirade. "No need to know why I know this. You have never made your desire a secret, so it is only natural that I know. Knighthood, however, shall remain unattainable to you. The King, Mithros bless him, is quite stubborn on that subject."

"Why?" Alanna burst out.

"Do I look like His Majesty?" asked Sir Myles sharply. "No. I don't. Sad, but true. So I cannot answer for him." He leaned back and gazed intently at Alanna's face. "But I _can_ offer you an alternative. Something other than returning to the life you formerly held, a life where your particular talents were going to waste. If you take up this position, you must know that there is no turning back. As far as your father and fief know, you are dead. Your former captors are also dead, and you are believed to have died with them."

He paused to take a deep breath. "Alanna of Trebond, I'm asking you to consider becoming a spy for the kingdom of Tortall."

Alanna felt as if all the air in lungs suddenly left. "A spy?" she croaked.

He looked at her, his expression grave. "Take some time to consider it, my lady. If you desire to return to the comfort of your fief, I understand. You have been through a lot, more than is normal for a young lady like yourself. But if you have any questions, please come to me." He brushed his lap free of crumbs and stood. "Be well." He strode to the door.

"Wait."

Alanna's flat voice stopped him in his tracks. She was still standing, slightly swaying, her face emotionless.

"What makes you think I'd be a good spy?"

He ran a hand through his shaggy grey hair. "You're not too bad of a fighter, from what I've heard. You've got a lot of potential." He frowned suddenly. "It's up to you, though, whether or not you'll succeed. You've got to have the willpower to press onward, even if the mission becomes dangerous. Even if someone dies.

"Spies often lose their lives," he said abruptly. "They do what they must to survive and complete the mission, but things can happen – unexpected things – and those occurrences often result in death."

Alanna was silent, but the fierce light in her purple eyes spoke volumes.

The knight studied her intently. "I suppose you'll need a sword, then."

"It'd certainly be helpful."

His solemn face broke into a grin. "Welcome to our ranks, Alanna of Trebond."

As she shook hands with Sir Myles, Alanna felt more than heard the breath-like whisper that brushed against her ear,

_Well chosen, Daughter. Now the fun begins…_

Alanna swore.

* * *

So, a new chapter, eh? A little on the short side, but it'll suffice, I think. Anyway, sorry once again about the swearing in Alanna's monologue. She got a little testy with being bashed around for the past five chapters. Feverish delirium will do that do a girl. 'Specially, I think, spicy-tempered redheads. ;;

Hey, what does everyone think of _Trickster's Choice_ books? I think they've got to be the most bloody fantastic things TP's written yet. So elaborate. But almost too many characters to keep track of in _Trickster's Queen_. Still, it's a very good book.

**Soundtrack** (music!)

· _Perfect_ – Simple Plan

· _Innocence Again_ – Switchfoot

· _Healed_ – Nicole Nordeman

· _Move Forward_ – Bethany Dillon


End file.
